Lawns
       

All over my city, on streets named for trees
      and presidents, lawns have come back, dotted
            with violets and tulip cups.

Days when one foot would not
      follow the other, days when the dishes
            lay cool in the sink, days

when I knew I'd die, I wanted
      to stretch face down on lawns like these, the taste
            of green blades in my mouth, stained

ankles twisting. A Saturday father might
      find a soft bump in the leaves beneath his rake tines.
            Mealy bone he sprinkled to the lilies might be mine.

Days when I knew the widths and lengths
      of every stray feather, every dead yardbird's claw,
            the full perimeter of fear, would he have sniffed

the air and fenced me out? Or cranked on the sprinklers
      and wrapped a sweet twine of myrtle around my throat,
            then let the fat robins rain down.

Copyright © 2009 Pamela Gemin All rights reserved
from Another Creature
The University of Arkansas Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission